


Nothing But White

by TossaFanfic1981



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Gen, I swear this isn't how I saw it, It took a SAD turn, Soft and pure people, What Have I Done, just pure friendships, unexpected character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:21:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24269632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TossaFanfic1981/pseuds/TossaFanfic1981
Summary: This idea's been marinating in my head for a few weeks, and I had to put it outA character study of how Jaskier might see the world in colours
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	Nothing But White

When Jaskier first told Geralt he could see feelings, he thought the bard was just waxing poetic. It had been a summer night and the bard had been strumming his “very sexy” lute and humming a tune.  
“I’m feeling quite yellow today” he had quipped, and it had gotten the Witcher’s attention.  
“Yellow?” he had grunted, before turning his attention back to the glowing embers of their pitiful fire. Jaskier had tilted his head at an angle, looking like a little bird, a little lark, Geralt thought.  
“Yes Geralt” He had said, a bit self – consciously, “I feel yellow, I feel happy”  
“Emotions are colours now, bard?”  
“They always were to me, Geralt”

Jaskier says, and he reiterates it quite often, that happiness is yellow. Happiness is in the sun’s first rays, the delicate whorl of a buttercup, the smell of soft butter.  
Yellow is when Jaskier finds it in him to write a new song or poem. Yellow is when Geralt lets him ride roach for a while (and he can count on one hand how many times that has happened). Jaskier feels yellow when he sees his Witcher friend (“still not your friend, bard”) after a long while. Yellow is Ciri’s soft curls and Yellow is the sound of her laugh.  
Jaskier loves feeling yellow.

Sadness, in contrast to the common expression, is not blue. It is a deep, dark murky red, and Jaskier, the yellow bard unfortunately feels it quite often. Sadness is the burnt petals of a rose, thrown in the fireplace after a quarrel. Sadness is the dull taste of a strangers lips and the muted buzz of mulled wine.  
Jaskier feels red when he remembers the night on the mountain and the Witcher’s words. He is red when his lute feels strange and unfamiliar in his hands. He is red when the yellow can’t break through.  
Jaskier wears a lot of red just to prove to himself that it isn’t that bad of a colour.

Fear, and even Geralt knows this, is green. Fear is venom dripping from an open wound or a monsters’ fangs. Jaskier watches through a haze of green as Geralt fights monsters, heart lodged in his throat and feeling his insides turn green, green, green. Green is when he notices men and women alike staring at him with lecherous grins and the Witcher is nowhere to be found. Green is thinking of Geralt’s, Ciri’s or, hell, even Yennefer’s body in a ditch.  
Jaskier does not own a lot of green outfits.

Anger is a complicated one, and not always the same color. Jaskier has seen anger and felt anger but it never fits right within him, so he decided anger is blinding black. Anger is Geralt’s eyes when he blames him atop the mountain (It’s always you! Shovelling it!). Anger is Yennefer’s dress as she swishes away and Anger is a bottomless lake.  
Geralt always has at least a touch of black on him at all times. Not very visible, but it is there – in the tension in his shoulders or the lines on his face. Jaskier’s father is drowning in black as he yells at him (Can’t even hold a sword right – you’ll end up in a gutter). Jaskier feels the color in him, twisted and foul, when he thinks about of hard stones and words hurled at Geralt in Blaviken.  
Black is a decent colour, dark and broody and horrid. But it’s also very Geralt-y and Jaskier finds he doesn’t mind it that much.

Love or Passion of any kind is purple. It does not matter if it the gentle fondness he feels when he sees Geralt and Ciri laugh together (A Witcher laughing, imagine that) or the deep longing in his heart for Countess de Stael or any of his lovers, really – It is a beautiful emotion and he feels it unfurl in his chest every time, like the petals of a violet.  
It’s one of the reasons why he quite likes Yennefer’s eyes. She might not have felt purple much in her life, but it flows out of her – out of ¬all¬ of them, really – and it settles around them, a lilac bubble of safety and warmth. It fills his chest and flows out of his lute to spill over his audience, and it is beautiful  
Jaskier digs to find and tries to fill the colour in every corner of his life. He buys rings with amethysts and hides them in everyone’s satchels as presents, he pays a tailor to add a violet piping to his doublet and he wishes he had paint so he could fill it everywhere, even though he knows he’s not supposed to. Purple was a delicate thing, so it’s better if he doesn’t wear it often. 

Death, Jaskier soon discovers, is White.  
He shouldn’t be surprised, really, Death was the absence of life so it should also mean the absence of colour, right?  
It’s an unfortunate discovery, sure, but it’s not unpleasant. He had expected a far more painful death than this to be honest, what with being a Witcher’s travel companion, for going on almost thirty years now. His death was peaceful, he might even say, one moment he was there and in the next he wasn’t. He’s just lying on his back in the grass, a muted throb in his stomach the only sign that something was wrong.  
I can’t get it out, Yennefer cries and there’s panic on her face. Then he sees Ciri and there are tears in her eyes and last of all, there’s Geralt looking thoroughly bedraggled with some variety of gunk in his hair and on his face.  
I can’t get it out! Yennefer cries again and Geralt shakes his head at her, one hand reaching out to cup Jaskier’s face. There’s an awful secret in his eyes and as Jaskier looks into them he realises the secret has been shared with him.  
He doesn’t even bother to look at what impaled him – moments were passing too quickly to waste. Instead he just gazed at the three of them. It’s okay, he wanted to say, I’ll be fine, but there’s iron in his mouth, red and heavy, so he just stares.  
Ciri’s small hand, and in a few moments, Yennefer’s larger hand rise to meet his own, and Jaskier twitches his fingers in a facsimile of a grasp. Geralt’s hand is still cupping his cheek, warm and sure, so he closes his eyes with a smile watching the colours mix beneath his eyelids.  
There’s violet and yellow – his favourites – and blues and greens and oranges and colours so bright and heavy, he just wants to look all day, but they’re all draining away, little by little, melting away like hot wax, filling and overflowing till he’s left looking at a blank canvas. Yellow is the last to go, staying behind like a stubborn weed, but it drips away and drops down leaving behind  
Nothing  
But  
White

**Author's Note:**

> ...I swear the story just grew a mind of it's own and after the color Black, I just rolled with it
> 
> Please leave a comment and tell me what you thought of it. Constructive criticism is always welcome  
> Leave a Kudos if you liked it!


End file.
